


Capturing Un Coeur

by orphan_account



Series: Only Photos Remain [1]
Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: M/M, Slash, Suicide Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-04
Updated: 2011-11-04
Packaged: 2017-10-25 16:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Hastings never knew what love was, until it vanished. Poirot/Rossakoff, Poirot/Hastings</p>
            </blockquote>





	Capturing Un Coeur

When I was a young man, I thought love was being so attracted with someone you would follow them around like a love sick puppy all day. And that was all there was to it. A simple devotion between a man and a woman. To me, this "love" could surpass anything, and could destroy obstacles with one glance of its all-knowing eyes.

As I grew older, I found this was not so. So many pretty auburn haired ladies passed my way over the years, evoking the same reaction in me time and time again, yet they faded in and out like a background character in a stage play. One line to draw attention, attention that faded into nothing by the end of the first act. No, that wasn't love, no matter what I tried to kid myself.

I've known what love is for a long time, even if I was unwilling to accept it. Love has no bounds. It is genderless, ageless and can attach itself to anyone. I thought I loved Dulcie, but it was only when the ranch crumbled and Dulcie left did I realise all I loved was a dream. My dream of settling down with someone. Anyone.

Only now have I realised I already had the dream. In the impossibly neat Whitehaven apartment, with the equally as impossible little man.

Unfortunately, it only clicked into place when he was leaving.

It all started after the case I like to call "Double Clue". That was where he met the girl. I could almost immediately tell he was smitten with her – I'd been smitten with so many others I could tell by second nature. Letting the "Countess" Rossakoff run to America, out of the hands of the law, was also another telling sign. In retrospect, I could see I was jealous, but back then I put it down to frustration for not concluding a case properly with an arrest.

It was a horrible feeling during that case, watching my Poirot stroll with this bejewelled woman, so obviously attracted, and just watching the woman wind him right round her little finger. When she left, apparently for America, the greatest sense of relief washed over me. I thought it would all go back to normal. Poirot's smitten attitude would fade, and we'd be back as normal, partners in crime once more.

How wrong I was.

He was never back to normal. Although I kidded myself he was just a little under the weather, I knew he had not forgotten Rossakoff. I could see him slipping away from me, one diamond shard at a time, but it embarrassingly took until I saw them together for me to finally realise that Rossakoff never intended to leave.

I found this out one night in early March. Poirot was speaking to a dowdy woman in the next room, after telling both me and Ms Lemon that the client wished to speak with only him present. This was exceptionally odd to me – it wasn't often my Poirot left me out of things. However, I reluctantly sloped off to join Ms Lemon in her office, while the client and he spoke.

I could not hear a thing, but this didn't stop me from looking over through the glass window of Ms Lemon's office at them. They seemed to be not discussing a case, but something light and airy, like the banter he and I often shared. Jealousy prowled around my gut like an angry cat, but I pretended it wasn't there, and sipped some tea Ms Lemon had made, the teacup shaking in my hand.

It was lucky I had put my cup on the desk, since I suppose I would've dropped it in shock from what I saw. For when I turned for the last time to spy through the glass, no dowdy woman stood there, but it was Rossakoff who stood in her place. I recognised her almost as soon as she had removed the scarf from her head.

The angry cat that prowled in my stomach now grew into a furious tiger, and all I wanted was to rip her off _my_ Poirot, the man she was kissing with such passion. I can remember my thoughts turn inwards to a possessive stream of " _He's mine!_ " and I was almost about to stride towards the door and open it, before I realised what I was thinking.

It was worse than being thrown into snow without undergarments. You must understand that until then I was a law-abiding citizen, following the law to the tee. If I ever broke it, my conscience would stalk me until I confessed, or my Poirot soothed it with choice words. At that moment, what I truly felt towards my closest friend suddenly slapped me in the face. Sodomy was punishable by hanging, and what I felt towards my Poirot was exactly that. Fear overcame me, and I did the only thing I could consider at the time – I ran.

I did not know where my feet took me – all I wanted to do was run as far as possible. When I truly became too exhausted to run, I found myself on a large town bridge, far away from my Poirot and that woman. I leant over the edge and gazed into the blackness of the inky water below, my mind in turmoil.

What was I to do? I could not return to my Poirot and act like nothing was different. I could not lie to him – I never could. Not only was I useless at lying in the first place, my Poirot could almost constantly see through it whenever I tried. I was almost completely sure he would turn me into the police as soon as his little grey cells had figured it out – he had been brought up in a Catholic family, and although he had let people off charges before, I doubted he'd let me off this one.

And even if he didn't turn me in, nothing would ever be the same. He would kick me to the curb, out of Whitehaven Mansions, out of his life. He would have Rossakoff, and I would have nothing. I would lose the one thing that kept me going all these years, my darling companion.

To die or to lose my darling. I knew which I preferred.

I clambered over the black balustrades and simply hung for a minute or two. I only meant to contemplate my most happy memories of my Poirot, but a minute was enough for someone to spot me and tug me back by my collar. I didn't put up any resistance in my numb, but as soon as my feet hit the concrete of the bridge, I turned to see who had pulled me from my perch.

At first I thought it was Ms Lemon - the resemblance was uncanny! But I looked closer, and saw it was not her, but her sister Amelia. I had only met her on a few occasions, but I found her to be as kind-hearted as her sister. Without words, she took my elbow and led me away. Numbed, I could do nothing but follow.

To this day, I swear it was her eyes that made me talk. I always found myself trusting a pair of green eyes, so when Amelia asked me of my reasons, her sage eyes, watching, concerned, I found myself telling her everything. I told her about Rossakoff, of my Poirot and of what I felt. I knew that she may possibly turn me in, but I did not care. I would die either way.

When I finished, all she did was call for Francesca, her assistant, to bring in a cup of tea. Once it was done, she pressed it into my cold hands. We sat in silence for a while, me sipping tea and her looking completive. The fog in my mind had cleared after the third cup. I rose, and thanked her for her hospitality, and went for the door. It was then I remembered I had no other place to go to.

Almost as if she had read my mind, Amelia offered me her spare room. I protested at first, but she was adamant. I conceded after five minutes of solid debate from Amelia, and support from Francesca. As I ascended the stairs, a thought struck me, and I turned back.

"But Amelia, won't you turn me in for this? Is it not against the law?"

She smiled sadly. "How can I, when I am in the same position as you?"

From the kitchen, Francesca returned and placed a kiss on Amelia's brow. I suddenly realize how Amelia understood my feelings for Poirot. With a quick goodnight, I entered the room feeling far lighter than I had before.

* * *

It's been two weeks since I left Whitehaven, but Francesca has already taken a shine to me. She's taken me out to be her new photography model. It took a lot of persuasion on her part to convince me to join in, but here we are, stood in a park coated in blossom and spring greenery. He claims the photos are for _The Times_ , for _The Photographist of the Year_ contest _._ I humour her, pretending I believe his cock-and-bull story, pretending not to understand the words on the white board in my hands. Perhaps there is a competition he will enter these in, but that isn't his main concern.

She has a plan, and it involves me and Poirot. I would guess she was creating something to call him, get him back to my side. It's a pretty prospect, and I don't doubt she's doing this for my own good, but I'm not convinced it would work. I can understand exactly what is on the white board in my hands, as I crouch and turn for the camera, but what it will do is far beyond the grasp of my imagination.

Written on the board, in Francesca's sloping calligraphy, is this:

" _Mon_ _chéri n'étais jamais au courant de mon amour._ "

* * *

Three months it's been since I moved in with Amelia and Francesca. It's still strange, waking up in a bed that is neither mine nor Poirot's spare, but I'm starting to settle in. There's always the slight shock of seeing Amelia kiss Francesca good morning, and listening to them banter like husband and wife. My heart aches sometimes when I see them, wishing I had the same, but I am happy for them. They found love, and are courageous enough to stand by it.

My links to Poirot are now crumbling like week-old croissants. He is too loved up to remember to call in at his Whitehaven flat sometimes, leaving me to converse solemnly with Ms Lemon, who has already confided in me her worries about not seeing Poirot again. Inspector Japp has worried the same, in his gruff way, when we sometimes meet up for a drink.

Even the post, which I used to collect once a week from Poirot's flat, is now being sent to Amelia and Francesca's rooms above the coffee shop. I still pop in to Whitehaven, to keep Ms Lemon company, but that is the only reason I return to the place. I've given up on the childish hope that my Poirot would return while I'm there, and whisk me off my feet for another adventure. He's hardly there, and when he is we hardly speak. It's like a bullet to the brain each time he turns to pick up yet another call from that _woman_ , turning his back on me, his old friend.

It was Ms Lemon who gave me the invite. She told me Poirot had asked her specifically to give it to him in case he was not there. I opened it when I returned to the rooms, and opened it with all my other post. I was glad I did – I would've been most mortified if I had reacted the way I did in front of Ms Lemon. I didn't mind as much in front of Amelia – she had seen the worst of me after all.

The subject of the invite that induced such distress in me was that it invited me to the wedding of my Poirot and Rossakoff. If it left it at that, I would not have panicked so hard. But Poirot, _my_ Poirot, through his neat and elegant handwriting, had specifically asked me to be his best man.

I cannot remember much of my panic episode, apart from the fact that the thought of me being Poirot's best man, watching him be given away to that wretch of a woman, was causing me as much grief as if the little man himself had died. I was lucky Amelia was there to help me through it again – if he weren't, I suspect I would now be lying at the bottom of the Thames.

I was so nervous about going to the wedding, the days leading up to the event became a fast-spinning tornado of chaos. I remember Francesca taking me to have a suit fitted, and receiving a small _boutonniere_ in the post from Poirot (which, according to Amelia, sent me into another fit of hysterics). But soon enough, I came to my senses at the top of the lily-lined aisle, waiting for my Poirot to walk through those double oak doors at the other end of the room.

And, my _God_ , when he did enter, he looked absolutely enchanting. While most guests looked to the bride and her mushroom of a dress, I couldn't tear my eyes off of him, walking down the aisle in an excellently cut white coat-and-tails ensemble, with a green-gold waistcoat and _cravat_ which accented the eyes I had fallen deeply in love with.

The ceremony was ten minutes maximum, but to me it felt like eternity. All I could think of was that _witch_ across from Poirot, who talked of love as if it were an object, as if it were an unwanted ruby. My mask of genial happiness almost fell when it came to the vows, but I struggled through by imagining me in Rossakoff's place, saying 'I do' to Poirot and hearing him repeat them back to me. It was agony knowing my fantasies would never happen, but it kept me going throughout the speech that followed of the jewel encrusted lobster that was _my_ Poirot's soon-to-be wife. I could not believe this was the _thing_ Poirot wanted to marry.

My ordinary gentleman instincts of treating women civilly had been thrown out the window when it came to _her_ , so when the clergyman asked for objections, it took all my willpower not to speak my mind.

* * *

Francesca's dragged me out again for more photographs. She explains she wants different messages for each different season. I agree to help her – I'm pretty sure I would've wound up doing it anyway even if I had said no.

The skies are bright blue again, but the park is different from the last time I was here. The vivid greenery is now somewhere between gold and a warm green, and the blossom has been replaced with numerous butterflies, all jewel coloured and glittering in the summer sunshine.

I'm still holding the board, and I can still understand what it says. Francesca's plan, however, is still obscured in shadows.

The words this time are - _"Mon chéri m'a quitté pour le glamour et les paillettes."_

* * *

It's quite a shock when I next see my old friend. Amelia and I were out on a golfing green in a small Welsh village. Francesca had wanted to see her family, and with a little persuasion I had been roped in to join them on their trip. The scenery was beautiful, with picturesque villages and rolling hills of countryside, but it was nothing compared the beauty of my Poirot's sparkling grass-green orbs.

I missed him something dreadful. Each stunning mile of countryside that passed was a kick in the gut that reminded me I was one mile further from him, one mile further from his gentle chuckling and his sighs of " _Mon cher ami..."_ whenever my imagination ran off into the sunset during a case. The days on the trip passed in a dreary blur of longing and imaginings of him saying "It is _mon cher ami_ Hastings!" and appearing in front of me.

It was with great surprise when I heard those words outside of my mind. But there they were, jubilant and excited, charging the air that filled my lungs with happiness as I turned around and saw the little man I had longed for all these weeks. He was literally bouncing his way towards me, and he greeted me in the usual exuberant way, with kisses on each cheek that set my heart aflame once more.

It was easy to fall into our old patterns of speech as we wandered around the golf course. Amelia, seeing who I was with, had gone on ahead, leaving me to converse freely with Poirot about every topic under the sun. We were sat under a blossoming cherry tree when the conversation inevitably turned to our living arrangements, and, in Poirot's case, Countess Rossakoff, who I refuse to consider as _Madame Poirot_.

He began by asking about Amelia. I explained how I lived now, but I was sure Poirot had guessed already. I carried on speaking anyway, talking about Amelia's bookish nature and Francesca's photography, and how fantastic it was that I had found someone to stay with. I omitted to tell him of the bridge incident – he did not need to know. Poirot asked, in roundabout terms, if I had missed living with him. I answered without hesitation, in a sort of roundabout way, that my life now is nothing compared to my life with him. He smiled, and my blood bubbled merrily at the sight.

Later on, I asked about Rossakoff, to be polite, although I'd rather hear nothing of the little minx. I soon regretted asking. Poirot went off into avid descriptions of their house by the sea, his blooming vegetable garden and all the home comforts I had sorely missed. As he spoke of sea salt and marrows, my mind recessed into the shadows of the black depression that plagued me in March. Of each event and object he spoke of, I nodded and smiled, but my mind snarled and hissed that it should've been me by his side, not the sneaky thief that had wound her way there. A few months ago, I would've kicked myself for thinking such things, but now I didn't care much.

But for all its perfection and dream-like glossiness, there was something amiss about my little friend's life. There was something missing from his descriptions of his vivid life with Rossakoff, an airless gap that I could almost touch with my fingertips. When I tried to pry, it was a very sharp reply I received.

" _Oui_ , Hastings. We are fine."

His words don't ring true.

Nothing does these days.

* * *

We're out in the field again. The trees have turned golden, and the sunlight pours through the tree gaps like spotlights. I'm starting to see the purpose of these photographs. I can almost see the plan unfolding. If it works, I would be the happiest man on the planet. If it does not, I will end up what most of my thoughts revolve around these days – dead.

This time, my board reads " _Tu me manques, mon chéri._ "

* * *

The news of the divorce came through from Inspector Japp. Rossakoff had been caught stealing gems (again), right under Poirot's nose. From what Japp said, all the coppers at the Yard had figured out who the thief was before Poirot had even considered the subject.

 _That's what infatuation does_ , I supposed, sipping my beer as Japp regaled the tale. _Pulls the wool over your eyes and breaks your heart_. Almost as soon as I had heard of the break-up, I had wanted to go to my Poirot's side right away, but Japp wanted to tell the story from its very beginning to its end. I waited for him to finish, but an hour passed and he still showed no signs of slowing down, and so impatient was I to leave to see my Poirot, I broke into his monologue as soon as he drew a long enough breath.

"It sounds like the most excellent case, Japp, but do you know where he is now?"

"Why, I think he's gone back to Whitehaven, but-" I did not let him finish. Within a second I was pulling on my coat and racing out the door, dodging and ducking around people on the street outside. Somewhere along the line I had dropped into a local shop and bought one of Poirot's favourite sweets, as I found my wallet lighter and a pack of them in my hands as I skidded to a halt in front of the steps leading to Whitehaven.

As the lift ascends, I attempted to neaten my appearance. It was difficult – ever since my Poirot and I had parted ways, it had been an uphill battle to get out of bed some days. Luckily I had cleaned up a little for meeting Japp, so it was a case of straightening my tie and jacket, and willing myself to look a little less flushed.

It was Ms Lemon who answered the door when I knocked. She began to say Poirot was unavailable as soon as she opened the door, but once she saw who it was, she knew I wasn't falling for it. There were no words between us, but she knew if anyone could speak to Poirot, it was me. She stood aside, and I entered the flat. The lounge was empty, so I checked his bedroom.

This was where I found him, fully-clothed but wrinkled beyond their usual immaculate state. Poirot was not one to weep, but you could see the tell-tale signs on his troubled face, and the dark stains on his suit where they had fallen. It seemed as if he was asleep, but there were small whimpers that escaped him, and his body was as taut as a violin string. I knew the signs – it was a nightmare.

Without even thinking about it, I reached across and grasped his compact hand in my own, and murmured soothing words to him. With each spoken word, he seemed to relax, until he was soon curled up like a small cat against my arm. I didn't try and remove my arm from his grip, although I knew I would have to in the morning, but for now he needed me, as I had needed him for the past year.

I must've fallen asleep, for when I regained my bearings, my shoes and jacket had been removed, and I had been tucked in to Poirot's bedclothes. Something delicious was being baked in the kitchen, and the scent of it was making my mouth water. I rose, and strolled into the kitchen. Poirot stood there, serving some French toast, having changed into some neater attire while I was asleep.

He smiled when I entered, and I could see he wasn't all there yet. But we talked of it after breakfast, hand in hand like last night, and I was certain he would be soon be my Poirot, the one I remembered. I could feel it, we would be fine.

No, scratch that. We would be _wonderful_.

* * *

Last one, Francesca tells me, as we close the gate and enter the park. The last one, and then she'll enter them, making sure the only thing referenced is my own gender. I'd rather you not be hung for sodomy, she explains. The park is now coated with snow – giving Francesca plenty to work with. She coats me with snow and ice, trying to make it seem as if it was snowing on me, and only succeeding a few times. The other times she manages to get me very, _very_ cold.

I don't complain, because finally, _finally_ , I can see what Francesca is trying to do with these photos, as written in her neat cursive on the board that had said so much this past year, was the last message;

" _Chéri, reviens, je t'en prie."_

* * *

By now, I had moved back into Poirot's flat. Amelia and Francesca had been sad to see me leave, but wished me all the best. They helped me move all my clothes and items back into the flat, where Poirot sorted them into his usual orderly style. Once everything had been returned, it was almost as if I'd never left the place.

It took no time at all to settle into our old lives. There were a few differences in habit since I left – for example, Poirot had taken to reading _The Times_ in my absence – but nothing that bothered us. Life went on, and it was wonderful again. Poirot had not guessed of my feelings, as I had worried months earlier, so I did not tell him either. Weeks turned to months, and all was well. Until the one day that changed my life forever.

It was early one March morning. While I was finishing the remnants of my breakfast, Poirot had picked up _The Times_ and was scanning its front page.

" _Mon cher ami_ , the name of your friend that you stayed with was Francesca Jones, _nest cue pas_?" Poirot asked, scanning an article in the paper with quite some interest.

"Why, yes it was," I replied, setting aside my empty coffee cup. "Is there something about her in the paper?" I crossed the room and peered over my Poirot's shoulder. I spied the piece almost immediately – if the extremely large photograph of Francesca wasn't clue enough, the bold title, _The_ _Times Photographist Of The Year: Francesca Jones,_ took up almost half the front page. I smiled slightly at the sight.

"I say, this is wonderful news!" I exclaimed. "I'd better go and congratulate her!"

" _Oui._ Give Mlle Francesca my congratulations too, if you will."

"I will." I went into the hall, pulled on an overcoat and laced up my shoes. "I'll be back soon." With that, I strolled out of Whitehaven.

The day was bright but cold. The dew had not yet fallen from the grass. I neatly climbed into the Lagonda and drove for a few minutes, the spring breeze ruffling my hair as I went by.

It took around ten minutes to arrive. Amelia met me at the door and let me in, wearing the biggest smile I had seen. Almost as soon as I stepped in the door, I could hear Francesca singing an off-key tune in the kitchen. She spun out of the kitchen once I had sat down, holding a celebratory cake above her head in jubilation.

I passed on the congratulations from Poirot and I, and she accepted them with a five minute monologue on how wonderful I was, and how Poirot was, and how almost everything in the world was. The mood could not have been happier, and we ate cake and tea until at least half the morning had passed. Francesca had calmed somewhat after time elapsed, but it was with a big smile she addressed her next question to me.

"So, Arthur, has Monsieur Poirot seen the photos yet?"

"I don't think so... He was still on the front page when I left."

Francesca shared a jubilant grin with Amelia. "Oh, you wait Arthur!" she cried happily. "Just you wait!"

"Wait for what?" I asked, completely confused.

"Wait until he sees the photos!"

"What- Wait, are the photos that won the ones of... _me_?"

"Yes!"

My stomach sank to my feet. "But if Poirot works it out, he will detest me-"

I was interrupted by Francesca giggling happily. "Just you wait; you'll get the best surprise once you get back!"

"What do you mean?"

"My sister told me something," Amelia said, eyes sparkling. "Something that you will _love_!"

"What is it?"

"Get back to Monsieur Poirot, and you'll find out!"

I managed to get nothing else out of them, so I had no choice but to drive back to Whitehaven. I took as long as possible to arrive back, but there's only so slow you can go without having a taxi drive as close as possible to the boot of your car. Despite all my efforts, I still managed to return within the hour. I entered the flat with a feeling of trepidation. I passed Ms Lemon on my way to the lounge, who smiled at me as our paths crossed.

Poirot was nowhere to be seen when I entered the lounge, but something new caught my eye all the same. It was a small picture frame, sat neatly on the desk, and as I approached, I realised it was a framed newspaper clipping, meticulously cut so that nothing tore. With a jolt, I recognised my face in all four photos, and the board that Francesca had written so neatly upon them. Below it was a square piece of notepaper, and written in my Poirot's elegant, wonderful hand writing werefour words.

_Moi aussi, je t'adore._

What I felt then, was the most sensational feeling in the world. It was a mix of all the air in the room vanishing, and all my insides throwing a dance party. I didn't realise how wide my smile was until the sides of my mouth ached, but I didn't care. All I was thinking was that _he felt the same_.

A small sound alerted me to a presence behind me. My Poirot stood in the doorway, looking as nervous as I had ever seen him. I walked up to him and took his hand. With out breaking eye contact, I bowed low and kissed the compact knuckles of his hands.

His beautiful eyes sparkled, and the smile I had ached for returned once more to his face. There were no words between us, but we both knew what the other felt without needing to speak. He pulled me closer, and I wrapped my arms around him, and pressed my forehead to his.

To say there were fireworks when we first kissed would be an understatement. There were fireworks when I kissed his hand, there were explosives when we embraced, forehead to forehead, and it was as if ten thousand stars had spontaneously combusted when we kissed. It was a little strange, with the moustache and all, but I never wanted this moment to stop.

Because for this moment, I finally knew what love was.

* * *

**Translations**

_Mon_ _chéri n'étais jamais au courant de mon amour. –_ My darling never knew of my love.

 _Mon chéri m'a quitté pour le glamour et les paillettes. –_ My darling left me for glitz and glamour.

 _Tu me manques, mon chéri._ – I miss you, my darling

 _Chéri, reviens, je t'en prie. –_ Darling, come home, I beg you.


End file.
